


Fever Dream

by undun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aquatic illusions, Drabble, Dress Up, Fake Gun, Fancy Dress, Gen, Glitter, Police Holding Cell, Slightly Threatening John, sweary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:08:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2767571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undun/pseuds/undun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is not quite sure if he's awake or not...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This nutty dream woke me up out of a restless night of virusy sleep. You're welcome.
> 
> And also, I'm sorry.

Greg thanked the duty officer and stepped forward to enter the holding cell. He stared. He turned to the constable to check if he was seeing the same thing, but the officer had already retreated down the corridor. Greg stared.

 

Sherlock’s tail brushed the floor in a gentle _shush-shush_ , John’s legs unconsciously echoing as he swung them. Yes, John’s legs were too short for the height of the bunk they sat on - it was almost funny. But Greg didn’t feel like laughing.  He eyed the rifle cradled casually in John’s arms.

 

Small caliber, long barrel… Enough like a long-range sniper rifle to give Greg reason to wonder (not for the first time) how, no - _why_ \- was John a crack shot? What use was that particular skill set for a Royal Army Medic?

 

Sherlock’s hypnotic tail-wagging was getting to him. Greg straightened.

 

"Right, you two, time to go! I owe the bloody desk sergeant a bottle of the good stuff and you’re paying for it."

 

The men looked at him calmly.

 

"On your feet! I haven’t got all night!" Greg bellowed with a sense of déjà vu.

 

Sherlock stopped wagging his tail. John stood slowly, hitching the rifle into a comfortable position. Very casually.

 

The hairs on the back of Greg’s neck stood up. _Replica. It’s a fucking replica, get a grip._

 

"Um," John began, then scratched his ear.

 

Greg waited. Not very patiently.

 

John tipped his head slightly, indicating his companion (whose oddly light eyes had never looked more natural). “He can’t walk,” he said with a crooked smile.

 

"What?" Greg felt dim. He usually did around these two, but— "Just take the fucking tail off!"

 

He glared at Sherlock; resplendent in his shimmering scales, glitter gleaming on his bare chest.

 

"I’m not wearing pants."

 

"Fuck." Greg silently screamed for Mycroft.

 

 

ººº

**Author's Note:**

> Edited 20/4/15


End file.
